UC-NRLF 


VAJ  , 


WAR, 


IN  THREE  PARTS. 


BY  SAMUEL  WEBBER,  M.  D. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

XLIARD 
1823. 


PRINTED  BY  BILLIARD' AND  METCALF. 


WAR, 


IJf  THREE  PART£. 


BY  SAMUEL  WEBBER,  M.  D. 


:  CAMBRIDGE : 

PRINTED  3Y  IIILLT.ART  jftND 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  subscriber  gratefully  acknowledges  the  receipt  of 
the  following  Poem,  as  a  valuable  present  from  its 
respected  author.  He  causes  it  to  be  published  in  the 
belie/  that  it  is  well  adapted  to  promote  the  object  of 
Peace  Societies,  not  only  on  account  of  its  excellent 
sentiments  happily  expressed,  but  as  furnishing  an  exam- 
ple, which  others  may  be  induced  to  imitate — that  of 
employing  poetical  powers  for  the  advancement  of 
peace,  and  the  abolition  of  war. 

NOAH  WORCESTER. 


PREFACE. 

WAR  has  been  for  ages  the  theme  of  poets  ; 
they  have  delighted  to  expatiate  on  its  dangers 
and  its  triumphs ;  they  have  celebrated  the 
glory  of  victory,  the  toils  and  achievements  of 
the  conqueror,  and  have  not  suffered  the  valour 
and  fortitude  of  the  vanquished  to  pass  unnoticed 
or  unpraised.  Amid  its  scenes  they  have  found 
the  materials  of  splendid  description,  and  its 
vicissitudes  have  afforded  them  opportunities  of 
displaying  their  powers  of  captivating  the  atten- 
tion, of  awakening  the  imagination,  and  rousing 
the  passions. 

But  in  the.  glow  of  fancy  and  the  ardour  of 
inspiration,  poets  seem  in  general  to  have  for- 
gotten that  they  were  men,  and,  in  modern  times, 
not  only  that  they  were  men,  but  that  they 
were  Christians ;  that  they  bore  the  name  of  dis- 
ciples of  him,  whose  character  was  the  very 
reverse  of  the  character  of  those  whom  they 
celebrated  as  heroes,  and  for  whose  renown 

267665 


they  lavishly  exerted  those  powers  which 
heaven  assigned  as  a  blessing,  but  which  from 
their  perversion  have  become  a  curse. 

This  censure  may  at  first  appear  harsh,  but 
will  lose  its  severity  if  we  consider  for  a  moment 
how  greatly  man  in  every  condition  is  influ- 
enced by  the  desire  of  praise.  From  the  mon- 
arch to  the  slave,  all  pursue  renown  in  some 
way  or  other,  and  every  pathway  that  leads  to 
eminence  is  trodden  by  multitudes.  However 
much  we  may  exult  in  the  praises  of  our  cotem- 
poraries,  still  there  is  something  within  us,  that 
forbids  the  aspiring  mind  to  be  satisfied  with  a 
glory  commensurate  with  our  earthly  existence  ; 
something  that  prompts  us  to  obtain  a  reputa- 
tion that  will  survive  us ;  a  wish  that  our  names 
may  be  remembered  with  honour,  when  our 
bodies  shall  have  mouldered  into  dust.  Every 
effect  must  correspond  to  its  cause,  and  as  his- 
torians and  poets,  the  chief  dispensers  of  earthly 
renown,  chose  in  the  earliest  times  to  devote 
their  choicest  powers  to  the  task  of  immortaliz- 
ing the  fame  of  the  warrior,  those  who  sought 
for  glory  sought  to  obtain  it  by  military  prowess. 
'  Their  deeds  and  the  example  of  preceding 
poets  induced  those  that  followed  to  a  repetition 
of  praise,  and  the  stream  of  glory  has  rolled  on 


for  ages,  an  unbroken  torrent  of  splendid  atrocity. 
The  golden  waters  of  fame  have  flowed  over 
the  field  of  battle,  dazzling  the  eye  with  the 
brightness  of  their  surface,  and  hiding  in  their 
bosom  the  horrors  and  sufferings,  at  whose 
nakedness  both  Nature  and  Reason  recoil. 

That  this  should  still  be  the  case,  notwith- 
standing the  wide  dissemination  of  that  religion, 
whose  great  doctrine  is  peace  and  good  will  on 
earth,  is  truly  deplorable  ;  and  to  those  who 
know  how  early  in  life  the  mind  receives  a  bias 
from  education,  it  ought  to  be  a  subject  of 
serious  inquiry,  why,  while  with  our  lips  we 
profess  ourselves  followers  of  Christ,  the  ac- 
tions, which  we  most  love  to  celebrate  and 
glory  in  performing,  should  be  like  those  of  the 
heathens,  whose  most  powerful  deities  were  but 
their  own  evil  passions  personified. 

At  this  time  great  endeavours  are  making  to 
awaken  men  to  a  sense  of  their  error,  to  cause 
them  to  see  how  widely  they  are  wandering 
from  the  path  of  duty,  and  to  excite  them  to  a 
cultivation  of  that  peace,  which  their  common 
origin  and  ultimate  destination,  in  addition 
to  the  commands  of  religion,  so  powerfully 
recommend.  Wishing  to  contribute  his  assis- 
t$nae,  though  feeble,  to  the  promotion  of  so 
1* 


vi 

good  a  cause,  the  author  has  been  induced  to 
pursue  a  track  but  little  trodden  by  poets,  and 
has  endeavoured  in  the  following  work  to  por- 
tray some  of  the  domestic  wretchedness,  dread- 
ful scenes,  and  mental  depravity,  of  which  war 
is  the  cause.  That  this  division  is  as  good  as 
any  he  might  have  chosen,  he  will  not  pretend 
to  affirm ;  it  was  one  that  occurred  to  him, 
while  thinking  on  the  subject,  as  adapted  to  his 
purpose,  and  he  has  pursued  it.  How  his 
labour  will  be  viewed  by  the  public  is  now  to 
be  determined ;  if  favourably,  his  intentions  will 
be  answered  and  his  hopes  gratified ;  if  not,  he 
will  at  least  have  this  consolation,  that  the 
attempt  in  which  he  failed  was  in  itself  worthy 
of  praise. 


INTRODUCTORY  STANZAS. 


The  poet's  lyre  has  oft  been  strung, 
And  many  a  theme  its  strains  have  tried; 
But  all  its  proudest  tones  have  rung 
To  swell  the  praise  of  warlike  pride. 

Mercy  and  Peace  have  seldom  found 
A  bard  inspired  to  strike  the  string, 
Their  praises  through  the  earth  to  sound, 
And  of  their  heavenly  charms  to  sing. 

Too  oft  the  gifted  few  have  bowed 
The  knee  to  Victory's  crimson  car, 
To  Carnage  hymned  their  Paeans  loud, 
And  waked  their  golden  harps  for  war. 

Endowed  by  heaven,  their  powers  have  bent. 
To  gild  the  Prince  of  Evil's  sway, 
And  to  his  gloomy  throne  have  lent 
The  sun-beams  of  immortal  day. 


Let  those  who  frame  the  martial  song, 
Awaken  from  their  trance,  and  see 
The  idol  they  have  worshipped  long. 
In  all  his  dark  deformity. 


viii 

Then  let  them  weep  that  they  have  poured 
Their  homage  to  his  shrine,  and  blind 
In  frantic  folly  have  adored 
The  fellest  scourge  of  human  kind. 

Then  let  them  tune  their  lyres  again, 
And  sing  of  murder's  deeds  no  more  ; 
Or  silent  thenceforth  be  their  strain, 
And  hushed  their  harps  forever  more. 


ARGUMENT. 

Appearance  of  a  beautiful  country  village  on  a  summer's 
morning.  State  of  the  same  village  at  sunset,  hav- 
ing been  plundered  and  burnt  by  a  party  of  the  enemy 
during  a  combat.  Sufferings  of  the  inhabitants.  Address 
to  the  Supreme  Being.  Can  it  be  possible  that  war  is 
sanctioned  by  his  approbation.  That  it  is  not,  appears 
from  the  curse  pronounced  upon  Cain,  and  from  Christ's 
coming  upon  earth  to  preach  Peace.  Shortness  of  life. 
The  many  ties  that  bind  man  to  it.  War  inimical  to 
all  these.  A  soldier's  departure  for  the  army.  His 
return.  His  forlorn  condition.  War  excites  a  desire 
of  martial  glory,  and  tends  to  destroy  the  Jiner  feelings. 
A  widowed  mother  left  by  her  only  son  who  goes  to  the 
army.  Exultation  of  the  populace  upon  receiving  the 
news  of  a  victory.  The  mother's  grief  for  the  death  of 
her  son.  Her  lamentation. 


FAR  in  the  east  the  parting  shades  display 

The  golden  waves,  that  crest  the  flood  of  day  ; 

The  morning  star,  the  herald  of  the  sun, 

With  waning  glory  owns  his  task  is  done, 

Veils  his  bright  face  before  his  sovereign's  blaze> 

Fades  arid  is  lost  amid  the  kindling  rays. 

The  earliest  beams  are  on  the  mountain's  brow, 


And  tip  with  geld  the  forest's  topmost  bough ; 
Still  on  the  plain  the  light  is  soft  and  pale, 
And  fleecy  vapours  shroud  the  sinking  vale ; 
At  length  they  break,  and  on  the  hill's  green  side 
Melting  to  air,  unfold  the  prospect  wide  ; 
Heaven's  azure  vault  with  warmth  and  brightness  glows, 
And  earth's  fair  fields  their  freshest  charms  disclose. 
Scarce  has  the  eye  a  lovlier  scene  surveyed, 
Than  that,  which  blooms  in  beauty  o  er  the  glade  ; 
The  village  hamlet  and  its  busy  train 
From  rest  to  cheerful  labour  waked  again. 
On  many  a  cot  the  orient  sun-beams  fall, 
And  kiss  the  vine  that  mantles  o'er  its  wall. 
The  gales  of  morn,  soft  breathing  from  the  west 
O'er  the  broad  cornfield's  undulating  breast, 
Shake  the  green  spires,  within  whose  buds  repose 
The  future  treasures  of  the  Autumn's  close  j 
And  Hope,  with  Plenty's  golden  horn  in  hand, 
"Waves  her  bright  locks  illuming  all  the  land ; 
The  joyful  peasants  at  their  labour  smile 
O'er  visions  fair,  that  weary  toil  beguile, 
And  maid  and  matron  'neath  the  rustic  dome 
Prepare  the  comforts  of  their  frugal  home. 
The  voice  of  childhood  mingles  with  the  breeze, 
From  the  gay  group  beneath  the  bending  trees, 
Or  rambling  o'er  the  dewy  meadows  wide, 
Or  winding  streamlet's  flower-enamelled  side, 
Whose  limpid  waters,  sparkling  in  the  sun, 
Seem  with  delight  their  varied  course  to  run. 
The  sun  has  almost  done  his  race,  and  now 
Slow  sinks  to  rest  behind  the  mountain's  brow  : 
His  setting  rays  are  on  that  valley  still, 


11 

Whose  beauty  charmed  him  on  his  eastern  hill ; 

But  ah  !  how  changed  is  all  that  smiling  scene, 

For  there  stern  War's  destroying  hand  has  been. 

The  village  homes  are  gone,  and  on  the  plain 

But  black  and  smouldering  ruins  now  remain  ; 

The  shadowing  elm,  that  waved  its  branches  high, 

Scorched  by  the  flames,  stands  blasted  in  the  sky  j 

The  smiling  fields  in  devastation  spread, 

And  all  the  harvest's  promised  joys  are  fled  ; 

The  charger's  hoof  the  velvet  sward  has  crushed, 

As  fierce  the  horseman  to  the  combat  rushed ; 

The  limped  stream  now  rolls  a  turbid  tide, 

Darkened  with  mud,  with  crimson  deeply  died ; 

Its  gurgling  waters  sadly  seem  to  moan, 

And  hoarsely  mingle  with  the  dying  groan, 

That  from  its  corse-strewed  banks  the  wounded  send, 

As  nature's  sufferings  find  a  painful  end. 

Where  are  the  inmates  of  this  once  sweet  spot  ? 

They  too  have  felt  war's  desolating  lot. 

The  lifeless  form,  near  where  once  stood  the  door, 

Tells  that  its  owner's  joys  and  pains  are  o'er; 

Vainly  he  dared  to  wage  unequal  strife, 

To  guard  his  daughters  and  protect  his  wife  ; 

O'er  his  pale  corse  the  wretched  widow  stands, 

And  wrings  in  agony  of  soul  her  hands, 

Of  pitying  heaven  implores  the  final  doom, 

And  asks  from  grief  a  refuge  in  the  tomb. 

There  too,  cut  off  in  youth's  fresh  opening  pride. 

His  virgin  daughter  near  her  sire  has  died, 

Her  drooping  head  is  on  his  shoulder  placed, 

Her  stender  arms  are  folded  round  his  waist ; 

The  rose  has  fled  her  cheek,  and  in  its  place 


12 

Death's  livid  hue  is  settled  on  her  face, 
On  her  mild  eyes  night's  endless  shadows  rest, 
And  marble  rigour  binds  her  snowy  breast. 
Yet  timely  fled  her  gentle  soul  away, 
E're  brutal  lust  had  soiled  its  mortal  clay. 
Not  so  yon  hapless  girl,  who  yet  prolongs 
A  life  made  hateful  by  recountless  wrongs ; 
Loathing  herself  she  sits  in  dumb  despair, 
And  tearless  rolls  her  eyeballs'  burning  glare. 
Ah  !  what  can  now  her  happiness  restore, 
And  give  the  purity  she  knew  before  ! 
The  morn  of  life  has  lost  its  sunny  ray, 
And  clouds  shall  darken  all  the  cheerless  day; 
The  opening  bud  of  virgin  bloom  is  reft, 
And  withered,  cankered  leaves  alone  are  left. 

The  sun  has  sought  the  chambers  of  the  west, 
And  left  the  toiling,  weary  world  to  rest ; 
The  breeze  of  evening  through  the  valley  sighs, 
And  night's  damp  vapours  from  the  stream  arise. 
Where  now  are  those  whom  war  has  left  to  roam, 
Without  a  shelter,  from  their  ruined  home  ? 
The  cold,  hard  earth  must  be  their  restless  bed, 
And  dews  of  midnight  mantle  round  each  head. 
The  orphan  child,  left  friendless  and  forlorn, 
Wakes  not  to  jocund  life  with  opening  morn  ; 
The  sleep  of  death  his  languid  eyes  has  sealed, 
And  life's  warm  stream  is  in  its  fount  congealed.* 

Eternal  God  !  to  whom  belongs  above 
The  glorious  attribute  of  boundless  love, 
That  never  wearies,  but  is  still  the  same  ; 
Father  of  life  !  from  whom  our  being  came  ; 
*  And  life's  warm  current  to  its  fountain  froze.— Campbell, 


13 

Oh  !  why  does  man,  in  whom  alone  we  find 
His  Maker's  image,  an  immortal  mind, 
Heedless  of  him  from  whom  these  mercies  flow, 
Thus  violate  the  laws  of  love  below? 
Stained  with  his  fellow's  blood  before  thee  stand, 
Nor  wake  the  thunder  sleeping  in  thy  hand  ? 
Does  thy  approval  wait  upon  the  deed, 
When  by  each  other's  hands  thy  creatures  bleed  ? 
Ah  !  no  ;  thy  laws  with  words  of  love  replete, 
By  Mercy's  angel  written  at  thy  feet, 
Forbid  the  strife  ;  let  earth  the  mandate  hear, 
And  warring  nations  tremble  and  revere. 

When  infant  hatred  in  the  breast  of  man 
To  rouse  his  stormy  passions  first  began, 
When  first  the  shuddering  earth  received  the  stain 
Of  human  slaughter,  from  the  hand  of  Cain, 
Then  from  the  heavens  the  voice  of  judgment  broke, 
And  Nature  trembled  as  her  Maker  spoke  ; 
1  What  hast  thou  done,  O  Cain !  thy  brother's  blood 
'  Cries  from  the  earth  that  drank  the  sanguine  flood  ;, 
4  Henceforth  to  thee  accursed  shall  be  the  soil, 
4  And  shall  not  yield  its  fulness  to  thy  toil, 
1  And  I  will  set  upon  thy  form  a  brand, 
'  To  stay  the  avenger's  blood-requiring  hand.' 
Such  was  the  doom  that  spoke  the  wrath  of  God, 
When  the  first  murderer  sought  the  land  of  Nod. 
Fearful  he  fled,  but  ever  since  unfurled 
War's  crimson  flag  has  waved  o'er  all  the  world  ; 
And  still  with  man  have  spread  to  every  shore 
The  seeds  of  strife  the  exile  with  him  bore  ; 
On  every  plain  the  iron  crop  has  stood, 
And  every  soil  been  drunk  with  human  blood. 


14 

•Long  from  the  ways  of  love  man's  children  strayed, 
And  bloody,  savage  deities  obeyed  ; 
Rapine  and  Discord  long  in  triumph  reigned 
O'er  altars  proud,  with  human  slaughter  stained, 
And  Peace,  an  outcast  from  the  haunts  of  men, 
Sought  hermit-shelter  in  the  forest  den  ; 
When  God,  in  pity  to  their  folly  blind, 
Sent  Christ  on  earth  to  teach  and  save  mankind. 
The  Saviour  came,  then  heavenly  music  rang, 
And  hymns  of  joy  celestial  minstrels  sang. 
As  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  at  midnight  stillj 
They  heard  the  sound  from  Zion's  holy  hill ; 
On  liquid  notes  the  words  of  gladness  ran, 
'  Henceforth  on  earth  be  peace,  good  will  to  man.' 
The  son  of  God  no  conquering  terrors  wore, 
No  palm  of  victory  on  his  forehead  bore, 
Lowly  in  speech  and  garb  ;  persuasion  mild 
Spoke  in  his  words  and  on  his  features  smiled  : 
Love  unalloyed  in  every  action  shone, 
And  peace  and  mercy  breathed  in  every  tone. 
These  too  he  taught,  and  bade  his  followers  cease 
From  strife,  and  with  their  brethren  live  in  peace. 
To  sheathe  the  sword  long  dyed  in  hostile  gore, 
And  thirst  for  victory  and  revenge  no  more. 
What  in  his  words  he  taught,  his  deeds  displayed. 
And  gave  example's  power  in  precept's  aid. 
Though  oft  reviled,  he  ne'er  with  anger  burned. 
Nor  wrathful  words  to  railing  tongues  returned ; 
When  doomed  to  die  upon  the  shameful  tree, 
When  scoffers  bowed  in  mockery  the  knee, 
And  hailed  him  King;  with  thorny  chaplet  crowned, 
"Torn  with  the  scourge,  and  like  a  felon  bound. 


15 

Meek  he  submitted  to  their  impious  hands, 
Nor  called  destruction  on  the  guilty  bands  ; 
Though  but  a  word  had  brought  the  winged  flame, 
And  swept  from  earth  their  nation  and  their  name. 

What  is  the  life  of  man  !  the  lightning's  gleam, 
The  ray  that  sparkles  on  the  rippling  stream, 
The  cloud's  light  shadow  flitting  o'er  the  plain, 
That  only  comes  and  straight  is  gone  again  ; 
Yet  in  this  span  of  time  what  scenes  arise  ! 
How  are  we  linked  to  earth  with  countless  ties  \ 
How  many  fond  affections  fill  the  heart, 
From  which  it  grieves  us  but  in  thought  to  part. 
How  many  cares  our  every  hour  employ, 
That  call  to  sorrow  some,  and  some  to  joy ! 
Yet  not  a  tie  that  binds  us  to  the  earth, 
No  wish  or  thought,  that  gives  to  pleasure  birth, 
No  soft  affection  in  our  bosoms  borne, 
But  finds  from  savage  war  a  cause  to  mourn. 

When  the  shrill  trumpet  through  the  land  is  blown, 
To  battle  rousing  with  its  brazen  tone, 
How  many  hearts  the  thrill  of  fear  confess  ! 
On  the  sad  soul  what  dark  forebodings  press  ! 
The  village  mansion  sees  its  honoured  lord 
Depart,  to  wield  in  foreign  lands  the  sword ; 
The  weeping  child  to  his  fond  parent  clings, 
Her  arms  the  wife  around  her  husband  flings, 
And  while  the  tears  roll  down  her  pallid  cheeks, 
With  sorrow  choked,  in  faultering  accents  speaks ; 
*  Dost  thou  now  go  ?  can  nought  a  respite  yield 
c  From  the  stern  call,  that  bids  thee  to  the  field  ? 
£  Must  thou  now  leave  thy  wife  and  babes,  afar 
( To  tread  the  stormy  scenes  of  toil  and  war  ? 


16 

'*  Alas  !  what  depth  of  suffering  may  await 
'  Thy  precious  life,  our  unprotected  state  ! 
'The  toilsome  march  by  day,  the  feverish  bed, 
'  On  the  damp  earth  in  cold  and  darkness  spread, 

*  The  failing  water  and  the  scanty  food, 
'Purchased  with  danger  and  repaid  with  blood, 
'  Must  be  thy  lot ;  doomed  too  besides  to  wage 

*  Relentless  strife,  and  dare  the  battle's  rage. 

'  What  if  disease  with  poisonous  breath  should  come, 
'  While  thou  art  far  from  friendship  and  from  home  ! 
'  Ah  !  who  shall  then  the  restless  couch  be  nigh, 
c  To  give  that  aid  which  gold  can  never  buy  ; 
'  With  ceaseless  care  to  mitigate  thy  pain, 
'  And  calm  the  fever  of  thy  burning  brain  j 

*  With  fond  solicitude  each  pang  remove, 

'  And  pour  o'er  all  thy  woes  the  balm  of  love ; 
'  Charm  every  sad  desponding  thought  away, 
1  And  bid  bright  Hope  her  visions  fair  display  I 
1  Alas  !  some  stranger's  mercenary  aid, 
'  Careless  and  cold,  with  hard-earned  wealth  repaid, 
1  Without  concern  shall  watch  thy  feeble  breath 
1  Revive  in  life,  or  cease  at  last  in  death. 
'  What  sad  imaginations  will  be  mine  ! 
1  How  my  fond  heart  with  hope  deferred  shall  pine, 
1  Uncertain  of  thy  fate,  while  lingering  hours 
<  No  tidings  bring  to  cheer  our  lonely  bowers ; 
c  How  full  of  fears,  how  long  the  time  will  be, 
f  While  thou,  my  love,  art  distant  far  from  me ! 
'  Thy  much  loved  babes  shall  mourn  their  absent  sire, 
c  And  watch  to  see  thee  come  with  fond  desire. 
1  Butshould'st  thou  fall,  oh  !  heaven,  avert  the  blow  ! 
{  Who  then  shall  soothe  their  keen  and  heartfelt  woe  ! 


17 

« For  brief  will  be  thy  widow's  wretched  lot, 
'  Whose  former  joys  are  fled,  but  not  forgot  j 
*  And  but  a  little  while  the  scene  will  last, 
'  Ere  death  confound  the  present  and  the  past.' 
The  mourner  ceased,  for  spurning  all  control 
The  flood  of  grief  came  rushing  o'er  her  soul ; 
Speechless  she  sank  upon  her  husband's  breast, 
And  short  oblivion  gave  her  sorrows  rest. 
With  anguish  torn  he  gives  a  last  embrace, 
And  prints  a  kiss  upon  her  senseless  face  ; 
The  trumpet  sounds,  forbidding  all  delay, 
And  he  must  hasten  at  the  call  away ; 
Sadly  he  goes  and  many  a  heartfelt  sigh 
Breathes  to  the  gale  that  heedless  passes  by. 

Long  years  have  rolled  o'er  all  the  changing  scene, 
What  form  moves  feebly  o'er  the  village  green  ? 
Slowly  he  now  has  reached  yon  rising  ground, 
From  which  the  view  commands  the  scene  around ; 
Why  does  he  start,  as  if  conviction  brought 
Home  to  his  heart  some  agonizing  thought. 
His  trembling  limbs  his  frame  no  longer  bear, 
And  sad  he  falls  in  anguish  of  despair. 
Approach  more  near  and  mark  that  shattered  frame  ; 
How  many  marks  the  soldier's  lot  proclaim  1 
His  better  hand  is  lopt,  the  faulchion's  blow 
Those  deep-seamed  scars  upon  his  forehead  show; 
Some  wounding  ball  has  made  him  seek,  in  aid 
To  prop  his  steps,  the  crutch  beside  him  laid. 

The  village  crowd  are  gathered  round  the  place, 
And  scan  with  anxious  gaze  his  altered  face  j 
Ah  !  it  is  he  ;  is  this  thy  wretched  fate, 
Thus  to  return,  and  thus  return  so  late  ! 
2* 


18 

Long  since  has  love  itself  believed  thee  dead, 

And  many  a  tear  has  o'er  thy  fall  been  shed. 

How  dark  a  tale  thy  sufferings  afford  ! 

A  tale  of  sickness,  famine,  and  the  sword ; 

Tis  not  the  lapse  of  years  has  made  thee  strange, 

Wounds  and  captivity  have  wrought  the  change ; 

Pain  and  the  rigours  of  a  foreign  clime 

Have  far  outstripped  the  steady  hand  of  time. 

His  former  friends  their  ready  aid  supply, 
And  bear  the  wanderer  to  a  shelter  nigh, 
Here,  with  returning  consciousness,  returns 
Grief  without  hope,  a  fire  that  slowly  burns, 
Consuming  inwardly,  and  ceaseless  preys 
On  the  sad  heart  remembering  happier  days. 
When  the  first  speechless  trance  is  past  away. 
And  calmer  thoughts  resume  their  wonted  sway. 
Sadly  he  questions  of  the  things  that  are, 
And  all  the  changes  from  what  once  they  were  ; 
Each  dark  vicissitude  he  longs  to  hear, 
That  blighted  hopes  his  bosom  held  so  dear ; 
Though  every  thought  is  full  of  pain,  his  mind 
Still  clinging  to  the  friends  he  left  behind, 
Seeks  to  explore  their  loss,  and  pierce  the  cloud, 
That  o'er  departed  pleasures  casts  its  shroud. 

Sad  was  the  tale,  the  picture  but  too  true, 
That,  ere  he  bade  farewell,  his  partner  drew. 
Months  rolled  away,  no  tidings  came  to  cheer. 
Support  her  hopes  or  drive  away  her  fear, 
Within  her  anxious  breast  to  whisper  peace, 
And  bid  her  spirit's  darksome  musings  cease  ; 
Corroding  cares  her  health  impaired  at  length, 
And  sickness  gave  to  Sorrow's  arm  new  strength  ; 


19 

Twice  on  his  home  Death's  shaft  relentless  fell, 

Of  both  his  babes  was  heard  the  funeral  knell ; 

The  mother  to  sustain  no  sire  was  near, 

To  soothe  her  sorrows  o'er  her  children's  bier, 

On  God's  paternal  love  to  fix  her  trust, 

And  share  the  load  that  weighed  her  to  the  dust. 

Ah,  where  was  he  !    perhaps  e'en  then  his  blade 

Childless  like  her  some  wretched  mother  made  ; 

Or  spent  with  toil  beneath  superiour  might, 

He  fell  a  victim  in  unholy  fight, 

And,  with  his  sins  unshrived,  and  red  with  blood, 

His  trembling  soul  before  his  Maker  stood. 

But  soon  report  the  fatal  tidings  bore, 

Arid  told  the  wife  her  husband  was  no  more  ; 

Then  was  filled  up  the  measure  of  her  woe, 

And  nature  sank  beneath  the  dreadful  blow ; 

A  quick  release  kind  heaven  in  mercy  gave, 

And  earth  received  her  in  her  children's  grave. 

What  to  the  soldier  now  can  joy  impart, 
And  staunch  the  bleeding  of  his  broken  heart ! 
Does  Fame  his  glory  from  her  trumpet  spread 
And  Victory  bind  her  wreath  around  his  head  ? 
The  sounds  fall  idly  on  his  palsied  ear, 
For  those  are  gone  whom  moil  he  wished  should  hear; 
The  laurel's  barren  leaf  around  his  brow 
Awakes  no  glow  of  exultation  now ; 
Those  eyes  are  closed,  which  would  with  joy  befeold, 
The  hearts,  that  would  exult  in  death  are  cold. 
Almost  as  cold  as  they  is  now  his  own, 
On  the  world's  wild  forsaken  and  alone, 
While  Want  and  Pain  life's  lingering  footsteps  urge, 
And  Memory  ceaseless  plies  her  thorny  scourge. 


20 

Oh  !  what  is  fame,  when  happiness  is  fled, 
But  empty  flattery  to  the  senseless  dead  ! 
Bane  of  domestic  bliss  !  what  ills  await 
Upon  thy  will,  dark  minister  of  fate  ! 
When  Youth's  full  pulses  throb,  and  courage  high 
Swells  in  the  heart,  and  sparkles  in  the  eye, 
When  thirst  of  glory  sets  the  soul  on  fire, 
And  kindling  hope  is  roused  by  wild  desire, 
On  Fame's  bright  pinions  borne,  to  soar  sublime, 
And  wrest  a  garland  from  the  hand  of  Time, 
Thou  bidst  him  follow  thee,  and  tread  the  path 
To  Glory's  temple  through  the  vale  of  Wrath  ; 
Though  unseen  dangers  lurk  on  every  side, 
Boldly  to  tread  with  Valour  for  his  guide, 
Cast  from  his  heart  affection's  slavish  thrall, 
And  break  through  every  tie  at  Glory's  call. 
In  vain  a  mother's  tears  her  son  would  move 
Untouched  alike  by  pity  or  by  love  ; 
He  hears  in  vain  that  tender  voice  dissuade, 
Whose  slightest  wish  was  once  with  joy  obeyed, 
Hardens  his  heart  'gainst  nature's  gentle  force, 
And  stifles  every  feeling  of  remorse  ; 
Flies  from  his  home,  and  leaves  her  there  to  weep 
O'er  filial  thanklessn^es  in  sorrow  deep. 

Slow  move  the  hours  within  her  saddened  hall, 
ISo  more  on  flowers  Time's  noiseless  footsteps  fall, 
Eafli  moment  brings  its  thorn  throughout  the  day, 
And  sleepless  anguish  wears  the  night  away. 

Tidings  are  come  at  last,  the  shades  of  night 
Gleam  with  long  lines  of  brightly  sparkling  light, 
The  tapered  windows  send  abroad  their  rays, 
And  crouded  streets  grow  wanton  in  the  blaze. 


21 

The  thundering  cannons  gratulation  pour, 
And  shouts  of  triumph  swell  the  deafening  roar, 
For  conquest  purchased  by  the  blood  of  those, 
Whose  dying  valour  triumphed  o'er  their  foes. 

Turn  from  the  exultation  wild,  and  mark 
The  weeping  mother  in  her  chamber  dark ; 
To  her  the  light  is  hateful,  for  her  pride, 
Her  darling  son,  amid  the  battle  died. 
As  through  the  chambers,  echoing  from  without, 
Resounds  the  multitude's  rejoicing  shout, 
Tears  stream  afresh,  and  sorrow  unreprest 
Almost  to  bursting  swells  the  loaded  breast. 
1  My  son  !'  she  cries,  when  passion  finds  a  vent, 
And  grief's  first  speechless  agony  is  spent, 

*  My  son  is  gone  !     These  eyes  no  more  shall  see 
'  My  only  son  return  again  to  me. 

*  Oh  !  dreadful  thought !  these  arms  shall  clasp  no  more 
'Him  whom  in  infancy  so  oft  they  bore ; 

« Ah  !  little  did  I  think,  when  first  I  prest 
'  Thy  infant  beauty  to  a  mother's  breast, 

*  That  this  should  be  my  lot,  to  mourn  in  pain 
'  The  loss  of  thee  in  war  untimely  slain  ; 

'  That  I  should  thus  survive,  bereft  of  all, 

'  In  utter  hopelessness  to  weep  thy  fall. 

'  When  righteous  God,  to  check  my  too  fond  love, 

*  Called  my  dear  partner  to  the  realms  above, 

f  Through  night's  long  hours  constrained  to  wake  anel 

weep, 
e  How  did  I  gaze  upon  thy  cradled  sleep  ! 

*  How  oft,  how  fondly,  did  I  love  to  trace 
1  Thy  father's  features  in  thy  smiling  face  ! 

*  Though  torn  with  anguish,  consolation  find, 


22 

'  Thankful  to  heaven  that  thou  wert  left  behind. 
'  How  did  my  widowed  heart  with  joy  revive, 
'  When  in  the  son  the  father  seemed  to  live, 

*  As  through  swift  rolling  years  the  hand  of  Time 

*  Led  thee  from  childhood  into  youth's  fresh  prime ; 
1  How  beautiful !   how  brave  !     Alas  !  too  brave  ; 

*  Thy  valour  swept  thee  onward  to  the  grave, 

*  Lured  thee  from  me,  ah  !  never  more  to  show 

*  That  filial  love,  my  only  joy  below. 

*  Far  from  thy  home  thy  mangled  body  lies, 
'  Without  a  friend  to  close  thy  filmed  eyes, 

'  To  pay  the  last  sad  rites  to  friendship  dear, 

'  And  bend  in  sorrow  o'er  thy  lowly  bier. 

1  My  days  will  now  be  sad,  and  shadows  dun 

'  Shall  veil  in  darkness  life's  fast  sinking  sun; 

'  My  silver  hairs  in  sorrow  shall  descend 

'  To  the  cold  grave,  all  nature's  destined  end, 

1  Where  tears  shall  cease,  this  throbbing  heart  be  still, 

'  And  anguish  lose  in  senselessness  its  thrill. 


END  OF  PART  FIRST. 


Setonfc. 


ARGUMENT. 

The  delusive  glitter  of  success  hides  from  the  mind  the  hor- 
rors of  the  combat.  The  dreadful  sounds  and  sights 
that  afield  of  battle  presents.  The  vast  destruction  of 
human  lives.  Scene  after  the  contest  is  ended.  The 
sudden  extinction  in  death  of  human  powers  and  feel- 
ings. Neglect  of  the  rites  of  sepulture  to  those  who  fall 
in  battle.  Moonlight  night  upon  a  spot  where  a  battle 
has  been  fought  the  day  previous.  Eliza  and  Henry. 
Buonaparte's  invasion  of  Russia  Arrival  at  Moscow. 
Burning  of  the  city.  Story  of  Paulowna.  Buonaparte's 
retreat.  Misery  that  attended  it. 


WHAT  potent  charms  in  Glory's  name  are  found  ? 
What  magic  mingles  in  an  empty  sound ! 
That  thus  can  make  war's  murderous  game  appear 
More  worthy  choice  than  purer  pleasures  near; 
Thus  'gainst  the  pleas  of  love  the  breast  can  steel. 
And  stifle  pangs  that  nature  else  would  feel ; 
Hide  all  the  horrors  from  the  dazzled  sight, 
And  cast  o'er  fields  of  blood  a  vapour  bright, 
That  gilds  the  terrors  of  the  dreadful  plain, 
And  mo  ks  the  distant  eye  with  splendours  vain. 
O  ye  !  that  sigh  for  palms  in  battle  won, 
Stained  with  the  tears  of  those  by  war  undone, 
Whose  sight  is  blinded  by  the  meteor  glare 


24 

Of  garlands  floating  in  the  tainted  air, 

Let  Truth's  unwavering  ray  your  vision  clear, 

With  nature  see,  with  nature  learn  to  hear. 

What  dreadful  sounds  the  voice  of  battle  swell, 

Wild  Horror's  shriek  and  Discord's  maddening  yell ; 

The  gun's  report  resounding  long  and  loud, 

Like  thunder  pealing  from  the  bursting  cloud, 

The  rattling  drum,  the  shrill  and  piercing  fife, 

The  trumpet  stirring  to  the  eager  strife, 

The  bayonet's  clash  where  bristling  fronts  unite 

And  struggling  files  are  met  in  closing  fight, 

The  steed's  shrill  neigh  and  trampling  loud  and  deep; 

As  onward  to  the  charge  the  horsemen  sweep  ; 

The  broad  sword  ringing  on  the  helmet's  guard. 

Or  met  by  answering  blade  in  ready  ward, 

The  shouts  of  conquest  and  the  groans  of  pain, 

The  fearful  shriek  that  begs  for  life  in  vain, 

The  laugh  of  brutal  hate,  the  dying  prayer, 

Sighs,  oaths,  and  execrations,  all  are  there. 

What  ghastly  sights  in  long  succession  rise ! 
A  world  of  horror  bursting  on  our  eyes. 
Arnid  the  rolling  smoke,  half  seen,  half  lost, 
Plumes,  pennons,  arms,  in  wild  disorder  tost. 
Here  fiercely  sweeps  along  the  horsemen's  charge, 
And  cleaves  through  hostile  ranks  an  opening  large  ^ 
Trampled  alike  beneath  the  charger's  tread 
Lie  friend  and  foe,  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
A  headless  trunk  is  here,  a  severed  hand 
That  still  convulsive  grasps  a  shattered  brand. 
There  rolls  a  head  with  fixed  and  glazing  eye. 
And  lips  yet  parted  with  the  last  drawn  sigh  ; 
Here  lies  a  dying  steed  upon  the  heath  : 


25 

His  crushed  and  mangled  rider  lies  beneath, 
On  many  a  breast  has  trod  the  armed  heel, 
The  work  completing  of  the  failing  steel : 
While  more  in  writhing  torture  yet  survive, 
Bruised,  gashed,  and  bleeding,  helpless,  but  alive  ; 
Doomed  still  to  linger,  still  in  pain  to  lie, 
And  hope  and  fear,  and  wish  and  dread  to  die. 
Turn  where  the  cannon's  crashing  thunders  sound 
With  vollied  peals  that  shake  the  solid  ground, 
Where  clouds  of  sulphurous  smoke  obscure  the  air, 
And  livid  lightnings  flash  with  horrid  glare. 
There  fate's  dark  angel  waves  his  sable  plumes. 
And  deadly  war  a  deadlier  shape  assumes. 
No  single  death  attends  the  powerful  ball, 
But  mangled  ranks  in  wild  disorder  fall. 
The  shattered  lines  still  close  upon  the  slain 
And  hasten  onward  to  the  charge  again  ; 
Files  after  files  are  strown  in  death,  as  fast 
As  withered  leaves  before  November's  blast. 

When  the  fell  work  of  human  rage  is  done, 
The  combat  ended  and  the  victory  won  ; 
When  all  the  sounds  of  fiery  fight  are  o'er, 
The  trumpet's  clangour  hushed  and  cannon's  roar ; 
When  slowly  rolling  on  the  freshening  blast 
The  murky  vapours  of  the  strife  are  past ; 
Tread  we  the  scene  where,  scattered  far  and  wide<, 
Lie  strown  the  broken  tools  of  wrath  and  pride, 
With  which  Ambition  builds  her  fabric  high, 
Like  Babel's  turrets  soaring  to  the  sky, 
Like  those  the  architect's  vain  hopes  to  foil, 
And  mock  the  builders  with  their  useless  toil. 
3 


£6 

How  vast  the  wreck  !   mere  lifeless  forms  of  clay, 
Cold  as  the  sod  unwarmed  by  summer's  ray, 
Are  those  who  late  were  living  men  ;  the  blood, 
That  through  life's  channels  poured  its  bounding  flood, 
Gave  strength  and  motion  to  the  buoyant  frame, 
The  heart  its  feeling,  and  the  soul  its  flame, 
From  many  a  ruptured  vein  profusely  shed, 
In  curdling  pools  o'er  all  the  plain  is  spread. 
Slow  as  the  ebbing  current  left  the  breast, 
The  vital  powers  their  failing  strength  confest ; 
Slow  o'er  the  fainting  heart  crept  languor  chill, 
It  heaved  convulsive,  fluttered,  and  was  still. 
Cold  and  unstrung  is  now  the  active  limb, 
Pallid  the  cheek,  the  eyeball  glazed  and  dim  ; 
Chill,  clammy  sweat  is  mantling  on  the  brow, 
That  wore  command  and  dignity  till  now  ; 
Mute  are  the  lips  where  eloquence  abode, 
Where  wisdom's  words  in  honied  accents  flowed; 
Hushed  is  the  tongue,  whose  silver  sounds  could  bind 
Persuasion's  chains  around  the  unwilling  mind; 
Cold  is  the  heart  that  love  and  friendship  felt, 
Where  holy  Truth  and  gentle  feelings  dwelt. 
Its  Maker's  image  from  the  form  is  flown, 
And  sad  mortality  is  left  alone  ; 
Doomed  by  the  mighty  power,  which  gave  it  birth. 
Again  to  mingle  with  its  native  earth. 
No  holy  requiem  o'er  the  grave  is  said, 
No  consecrated  turf  above  them  laid. 
Lured  by  the  putrid  steams  that  taint  the  air, 
Foul  birds  of  prey  the  mangled  corse  shall  tear; 
The  wolf  shall  here  his  midnight  banquet  hold, 
To  batten  on  the  noble  and  the  bold. 


27 

Their  flesh  shall  blacken  in  the  noontide  heat, 
The  storms  of  heaven  upon  their  bodies  beat, 
And  rolling  years  their  scattered  bones  shall  find, 
Washed  by  the  rain  and  whitened  in  the  wind ; 
The  fearful  stubble  left  upon  the  plain, 
Where  Death  has  reaped  the  harvest  of  the  slain. 

The  moon  is  up  and  sheds  a  feeble  light 
O'er  the  sad  relics  of  the  recent  fight, 
And  all  is  still,  except  at  distance  heard 
The  dismal  waitings  of  some  nightly  bird ; 
Or  from  some  wounded  sufferer  bleeding  near 
The  hollow  groan  of  anguish  strikes  the  ear, 
As  night's  chill  air  awakes  a  keener  smart, 
And  hope  of  aid  is  sinking  in  his  heart. 

Cold  is  the  moon's  still  ray,  as  if  it  came 
From  worlds  that  felt  not  passion's  angry  flame, 
While  yet  the  spot  of  recent  slaughter  seems 
To  mock  the  quiet  of  her  sleeping  beams. 
There  Ruin  broods  o'er  Fury's  work,  and  Hate 
Has  widely  swung  the  wasting  scythe  of  fate  ; 
All  that  remains  serves  only  to  declare 
That  rage,  revenge,  and  rout  were  lately  there. 
The  morn  awakened  many  a  warrior  brave, 
Whose  sleep  is  now  the  slumber  of  the  grave. 
He  that  last  evening  marked  the  full-orbed  moon, 
And  thought  to  see  its  waning  glory  soon, 
Beholds  it  not,  for  dark  and  rayless  night 
Has  thrown  its  shadows  o'er  the  orb  of  sight. 
On  broken  spear,  and  sword,  and  shattered  mail 
All  dimmed  with  blood,  glimmers  the  radiance  pale 
And  gives  each  livid  face  a  ghastlier  hue. 
As  damp^it  glistens  in  the  evening  dew. 


28 

What  white-robed  form  moves  slowly  o'er  the  plain. 
Like  spectre  flitting  o'er  the  untimely  slain  ! 
See,  now  it  stops  and  bends  it  o'er  the  dead, 
IVow  back  recoils  as  struck  with  sudden  dread, 
.Now  listening  stands,  as  if  to  catch  some  sound 
Of  lingering  life  among  the  corses  round, 
Then  hurries  on,  as  some  remembered  tone 
Came  mingling  with  the  deep  and  dying  groan. 
Ah  !  sad  Eliza !  dost  thou  wander  here 
To  seek  in  pain  or  death  thy  Henry  dear? 
This  morn  he  left  thee,  when  the  rolling  drum 
Called  to  the  field,  and  bade  thy  soUlier  come. 
In  haste,  he  lingered  yet  to  breathe  once  more 
The  vows  of  tender  love  oft  breathed  before, 
To  calm  thy  troubled,  sinking  heart,  and  dry 
The  startling  tear,  that  trembled  in  thine  eye. 
His  own  too  glistened  and  his  faultering  tongue 
Well  nigh  betrayed  his  manhood's  pride  unstrung. 
Though  light  he  spake  in  scorn  of  danger  near, 
And  strove  with  tender  guile  to  soothe  thy  fear, 
And  gaily  bade  thee  twine  the  laurel's  leaf 
To  crown  his  brows  returned  from  contest  brief ; 
Yet  love's  keen  glance  saw  through  the  thin  disguise. 
Which  fain  would  veil  the  danger  from  thine  eyes, 
And  marked  the  changing  hue,  the  anxious  look, 
That  shunned  the  scrutiny  it  could  not  brook, 
The  sigh  supprest,  that  swelled  the  beating  heart, 
And  hurried  step  unwilling  to  depart ; 
And  when  at  last  he  went,  the  fervid  grasp 
That  wrung  thy  hand  in  his  impassioned  clasp, 
The  averted  face  that  studiously  concealed 
The  pangs  a  parting  look  had  else  revealed. 


29 

Struck  to  thy  inmost  heart  with  horror  chili 
The  gloomy  presage  of  approaching  ill. 

Long  as  the  straining  eye  could  mark  their  way, 
Thy  watchful  gaze  pursued  the  stern  array; 
Loudly  the  spirit-stirring  music  rang, 
With  drum,  and  thrilling  trump,  and  cymbal's  clang, 
Proudly  the  silken  banners  waved  on  high, 
And  polished  arms  flashed  sparkling  to  the  sky  ; 
Stern  valour  glowed  in  every  bounding  breast, 
And  Victory  sat  on  every  nodding  crest. 
Thy  bosom  too  the  kindling  scene  inspired, 
And  Glory's  frenzied  dreams  one  moment  fired ; 
But  when  the  distance  snatched  them  from  thy  view, 
Returned  thy  former  feelings  sad  and  true. 

When  all  the  train  was  passed,  and  on  the  wind 
The  distant  music  died  away,  the  mind 
Desponding  sunk  beneath  the  oppressive  load 
Of  gloomy  fears,  and  tears  in  silence  flowed. 
When  on  the  rocking  air  in  thunder  pealed 
The  voice  of  battle  from  the  distant  field, 
On  every  blast  thou  heard'st  thy  lover's  knell, 
And  every  echo  told  thee  Henry  fell ; 
Afresh  at  every  shock  thy  sorrows  burst, 
And  still  the  last  seemed  deadlier  than  the  first. 
When  slow  returning  eve  no  tidings  brought, 
Still  darker  grew  each  melancholy  thought ; 
Fear  swelled  to  agony,  and  wild  suspense 
Seemed  worse  than  all  the  pangs  of  tortured  sense, 
And  urged  thee  on,  some  certainty  to  know, 
Though  but  the  certainty  of  hopeless  woe. 
Here  now  thou  wanderest  where  the  brave  have  died, 
And  earth  yet  reeks  with  slaughter's  crimson  tide  5 


30 

Though  every  quivering  nerve  with  anguish  keen 
Within  thee  shudders  at  the  dreadful  scene. 
Thy  trembling  foot  oft  strikes  some  face,  that  now 
Heeds  not  the  unmeant  blow;  why  then  shouldst  thou: 
And  yet  thou  trembling  start'st,  as  if  the  dead 
With  angry  eye  reproved  thy  careless  tread. 

Led  by  his  feeble  moan  thou  now  hast  found, 
Where  thickest  lie  the  mangled  slain  around, 
Thy  dying  lover,  just  to  hear  the  sigh, 
The  last  that  heaves  his  breast,  and  see  him  die. 

One  recognising  glance  he  gave,  a  smile, 
Mournful  and  sad,  played  round  his  mouth  the  while, 
One  feeble  effort  made  thy  name  to  speak ; 
Died  on  his  lips  the  unfinished  accents  weak, 
And  life  and  love  together  fled,  and  left 
Thy  widowed  heart  of  joy  and  hope  bereft. 

When  the  stern  despot,  whose  imperial  law 
Held  Europe's  subjugated  realms  in  awe, 
With  burning  thirst  of  conquest  fired,  led  forth 
His  veteran  squadrons  to  subdue  the  north  ; 
WThen  back  recoiled  upon  himself  the  blow, 
That  madly  aimed  at  Russia's  overthrow, 
What  scenes  of  ruin  rose  around  his  path  ! 
How  widely  swept  the  hurricane  of  wrath  ! 
Then  woke  the  anger  of  offended  God, 
Then  slumbering  Vengeance  raised  her  iron  rod, 
Crushed  the  proud  leader  in  his  impious  boast, 
And  smote  and  scattered  all  his  mighty  host. 
His  eagles  long  with  towering  wing  had  flown 
O'er  many  a  trampled  realm  and  crumbled  throne  ; 
Long  had  the  crimson  wing  of  conquest  fanned* 
*  "  Though  fanned  by  conquest's  crimson  wing."—  Gray, 


31 

His  banners  spread  o'er  many  a  wasted  land  ; 
And  long  with  baleful  meteor  beam  had  played 
The  light  of  victory  on  his  ruthless  blade  ; 
Till  his  proud  soul  with  impious  boasting  swelled 
Nature  and  Justice  in  defiance  held  1 
He  called  his  countless  bands,  to  conquest  trained, 
To  brave  the  clime  where  howling  winter  reigned ; 
Proud  of  their  fame,  to  danger  long  inured, 
Thronging  they  came,  by  greedy  lust  allured. 
From  regions  watered  by  the  swelling  Po 
To  where  the  Danube's  rapid  torrents  flow ; 
From  Tiber's  banks,  where  grandeur  finds  a  home 
Amid  the  ruins  of  majestic  Rome ; 
From  Tajo's  golden  stream  and  sunny  bowers, 
To  Poland's  barren  plains  and  subject  towers ; 
From  the  warm  shores  the  midland  waters  lave, 
To  those  where  breaks  the  Atlantic's  swelling  wave. 
The  legions  came  ;    and  half  the  Christian  world 
The  flag  of  slaughter  to  the  winds  unfurled. 
Ruin  before  them  rolled  its  fiery  tide 
O'er  burning  towns  and  fields  with  carnage  died  ; 
Famine  and  Death  behind  their  mad  career 
Hung  o'er  the  corse-strewed  plain  and  desert  drear. 
Onward  they  marched,  till  Moscow's  regal  halls 
Received  them  victors  in  their  lonely  walls  ; 
Then  Vengeance  started  from  her  long  repose, 
And  bade  their  triumphs  find  a  dreadful  close  ; 
High  in  her  hand  a  burning  torch  she  raised, 
And  bright  and  broad  the  princely  city  blazed. 
Through  night's  dun  gloom  red  gleamed  the  spread- 
ing fires 
O'er  columned  palaces  and  gilded  spires  ; 


Around  the  invaders  steps  the  embers  glowed, 
Their  features  stern  and  fierce  the  firelight  showed; 
Their  savage  deeds  belied  the  name  of  man, 
And  fiend-like  fierceness  through  their  actions  ran. 
Vain  were  the  tears  of  youth,  the  pleas  of  age, 
Opposed  to  brutal  force  a;id  heartless  i age. 
They  slew  the  father  on  his  threshold  floor, 
From  mothers'  arms  the  shrieking  maidens  tore  ; 
The  houseless  wanderer  stript,  the  bending  form 
Of  age  turned  naked  to  the  pelting  storm ; 
O'er  consecrated  shrines  unheeding  trod, 
And  stained  with  blood  the  altars  of  their  God. 
Hapless  Paulowna  !  who  thy  woes  can  hear 
With  eyes  unmoistened  by  a  pitying  tear ! 
Bright  rose  thy  nuptial  morn,  and  at  thy  side 
Thy  lover  stood,  to  claim  thee  as  his  bride. 
Timid  yet  pleased  thou  gav'st  thy  trembling  hand 
To  twine  with  his  the  sacred  marriage  band, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest,  gentle  grace, 
While  virgin  blushes  mantled  o'er  thy  face. 
Already  was  begun  the  sacred  rite, 
When  burst  the  thunder  of  approaching  fight, 
And  bade  the  bridegroom  leave  his  plighted  wife 
For  danger's  bloody  field,  and  deadly  strife. 
The  rites  were  broken  off,  the  tender  hand 
Sadly  relinquished  for  the  battle  brand  ; 
The  warriors  hastened  at  their  country's  call 
For  her  to  combat,  and  for  her  to  fall.* 

Swift  from  the  city  fled  the  timorous  throng* 
Borne  by  the  current  of  their  fears  along. 
Amid  the  tumult  from  thy  kindred  torn, 
*  For  her  to  combat  and  with  her  to  tite.—C 


33 

By  rushing  thousand^  far  asunder  borne, 

Vainly  thy  shrieks,  Paulowna,  rent  the  air 

In  all  the  frantic  wildness  of  despair  ; 

The  stranger  crowd  pressed  on  with  ceaseless  speed 

Too  anxious  for  themselves  thy  cries  to  heed, 

Their  thoughts  were  centered  in  their  woes  alone, 

They  felt  no  fears  nor  sorrows  but  their  own. 

Wearied  at  last  with  efforts  vainly  tried, 

When  strength  and  courage  in  thy  heart  had  died, 

One  last  remaining  hope  thy  foosteps  led 

To  seek  a  refuge  midst  the  mighty  dead, 

Where  stood  the  tombs  of  Russia's  royal  line 

In  holy  Michael's  consecrated  shrine, 

To  find  a  shelter  midst  the  solemn  gloom, 

That  coldly  slumbered  o'er  the  silent  tomb. 

Delusive  hope  !  no  place  could  hold  in  awe 

The  fierce  contemners  of  each  holy  law  ; 

With  sacrilegious  feet  they  trod  the  place, 

And  tore  thee  shrieking  from  the  altar's  base. 

Although  in  tears,  thy  beauty  yet  could  move 

Their  lustful  leader  with  unhallowed  love  ; 

111  fated  charms !  the  cause  of  endless  shame, 

Of  bitter  tears,  and  woes  without  a  name. 

W^ith  specious  tenderness  he  soothed  thy  grief, 

Deceived  thy  hopes  with  prospects  of  relief, 

Tried  each  accursed  art  thy  soul  to  bend, 

And  gain  by  treachery  his  cruel  end  ; 

Successful  but  too  soon  ;  an  evil  hour 

Betrayed  thy  virtue  to  a  villain's  power. 

Nor  didst  thou  know  thy  shame,  till  on  thee  broke 

The  fatal  tidings  like  the  thunder's  stroke  ; 

When,  callous  to  thy  woe,  he  told  his  vows 


34 

In  wedlock  plighted  to  a  distant  spouse, 
Cast  thee  away,  a  vile  and  worthless  thing, 
To  feel  of  ruined  fame  the  goading  sting, 
O'er  frozen  wastes  in  wretchedness  to  roam 
Dishonoured,  friendless,  left  without  a  home. 
On  Moscow's  smoking  ruins  black  and  bare, 
The  dreary  haunt  of  famine  and  despair, 
Napoleon  staid  with  mad  presumptuous  pride, 
That  ne'er  had  known  the  ebb  of  Fortune's  tide, 
Till  foiled  and  crushed  was  every  haughty  scheme, 
And  ruin  roused  him  from  his  frantic  dream. 
With  hasty  steps  he  turned,  then  taught  to  fear, 
And  Vengeance  followed  swiftly  in  his  rear. 
The  scene  that  then  began,  no  pen  can  reach, 
!No  tongue  one  half  its  deadly  horrors  teach  ; 
Famine  and  cold  their  mightiest  powers  combined, 
And  never  glutted  slaughter  trod  behind. 
Benumbed  with  cold,  or  faint  for  want  of  bread, 
Together  lay  the  dying  and  the  dead  ; 
The  sabre's  edge  was  bathed  in  hostile  gore, 
Till,  tired  of  murder,  it  could  smite  no  more. 
Thousands  on  thousands  fell,  as  o'er  them  passed 
The  whirling  snows,  before  the  tempest's  blast ; 
Loaded  with  death  the  icy  gale  swept  by, 
And  froze  the  eye's  last  tear,  the  heart's  last  sigh. 
Fell  was  the  shriek  that  maddening  legions  gave 
By  Wop's  steep  bank  and  Beresina's  wave, 
When  swift  retreat  by  fear  to  flight  was  turned, 
And  lawless  terror  all  obedience  spurned. 
In  eager  haste  to  gain  the  narrow  pass, 
With  dire  confusion  pressed  the  mingled  mass ; 
O'er  weak  and  wounded  comrades  heedless  rushedj 


35 

And  fallen  and  fainting  friends  unpitying  crushed ; 

Or,  in  vain  hope  to  reach  the  safer  shore, 

Plunged  in  the  chilling  stream, — to  rise  no  more. 

The  corse-choked  stream  could  scarcely  find  a  way 

Amid  the  ruins  of  that  dreadful  day  ; 

Vain  the  attempt  their  losses  to  recount, 

Or  sum  of  wasted  lives  the  vast  amount. 

From  Moscow's  walls  to  Niemen's  banks,  the  slain 

Filled  every  vale,  were  piled  on  every  plain; 

A  flood  of  fire  along  their  pathway  flowed, 

And  red  in  embers  every  city  glowed, 

A  burning  sepulchre,  where  human  bones 

Lay  'neath  the  crumbled  walls  and  fire-scorched  stones. 

Long  shall  the  realms  of  Europe  mourn  in  woe 

For  those  who  perished  in  that  overthrow  ; 

Long  on  that  man  the  curse  of  grief  shall  fall, 

Whose  mad  ambition  was  the  cause  of  all ; 

Long  shall  the  widow's  tears  and  orphan's  cry 

Ascend  before  his  righteous  Judge  on  high, 

To  be  remembered  when  the  final  doom 

Shall  burst  the  unhallowed  slumbers  of  his  tomb. 


OF  PART  SECOND, 


ARGUMENT. 

Rapid  perversion  of  the  mind  to  crime  from  small  begin- 
nings, compared  to  the  torrents  formed  by  the  dissolving 
of  snow  in  the  spring.  Purity  of  the,  wind  in  infancy. 
It  grows  familiar  with  depravity  with  increasing  years. 
Atlila,  Timur,  and  Buonaparte,  monsters  formed  by  war. 
Repugnancy  of  our  nature  to  deeds  like  theirs.  The 
sufferings  occasioned  by  war  not  to  be  compared  with 
the  guilt.  Persecution  of  the  Cameronians  in  Scotland. 
Grahame.  Indian  warfare.  Employed  by  the  British 
in  the  American  Revolution.  War  upon  the  ocean. 
Bucaniering.  Crime  committed  with  impunity  during 
war.  Conclusion. 


When,  on  the  hills  where  wintry  winds  have  blown 
Fraught  with  the  rigours  of  the  Polar  zone, 
Where  drifted  snows  lie  piled  in  rude  array, 
And  frozen  cliffs  obstruct  the  wandeier's  way, 
The  southern  gale  with  warm  and  softening  breath 
Unbinds  the  torrents  chained  in  ice  beneath  ; 
First  slowly  trickling  to  the  stream  below, 
The  eye  scarce  marks  their  progress  as  they  flow ; 
But  gathering  still  a  fresh  increasing  strength, 
They  sweep  in  thunder  down  the  vale  at  length, 
A  rapid,  foaming  tide,  whose  headlong  sway  - 
INTo  force  can  conquer,  and  no  barrier  stay. 
Such  is  the  mind  of  man  ;  as  prone  to  ill, 
As  gushing  founts  to  leave  their  native  hill. 


37 

Thus  from  the  earliest  dates  of  storied  time 
Has  onward  swept  the  swelling  flood  of  crime. 
Small  at  its  source,  but,  as  it  rolled  along, 
More  broad  its  stream,  its  current  doubly  strong ; 
'Till  nations  boast  of  what  should  be  their  shame, 
And  hail  as  gems  the  blots  that  stain  their  fame. 
Who  has  not  marked  upon  his  mother's  breast 
The  smiling  infant,  lulled  to  balmy  rest, 
Or,  if  awake,  with  sweetly  sportive  glee 
In  artless  frolic  on  his  father's  knee, 
All  innocence  and  love,  untaught  to  feel 
The  sterner  thoughts  that  after  years  reveal. 
When,  passed  a  little  time,  the  scene  of  life 
Sees  him  engaged  amid  its  busy  strife, 
Changed  like  the  strengthened  lines  of  form  and  face, 
The  altered  features  of  the  mind  we  trace, 
Where  Passion's  hand  her  burning  seal  has  pressed, 
And  stamped  the  character  by  deeds  confessed. 
Allured  by  wealth,  by  fancied  glory's  light, 
(The  wandering  meteor  of  a  stormy  night,) 
Led  by  Ambition  mounting  still  on  high, 
Or  dark  Revenge  with  red  and  restless  eye, 
He  spurns  the  chains  his  soaring  thoughts  that  bind, 
And  link  him  to  his  brethren  of  mankind. 
Let  but  his  hopes  succeed,  he  heeds  not  all 
The  sighs  that  murmur,  or  the  tears  that  fall, 
Though  round  his  path  sad  lamentation  wait, 
Like  Rachel's  weeping  for  her  children's  fate. 
Search  the  dark  records  traced  on  History's  page, 
Where  live  the  crimes  of  many  a  former  age, 
While  Time  has  torn  that  garland  from  the  brow, 
That  veiled  its  foul  deformity  till  nqw. 
4 


How  many  chiefs  on  conquest's  crimson  flood 
Have  swum  to  empire,  through  a  tide  of  blood  ! 
How  many  kings  have  raised  the  sceptred  hand 
With  worse  than  Egypt's  plagues  to  vex  the  land, 
O'er  fertile  realms  have  bid  their  banners  wave, 
And  left  behind,  a  desert,  and  a  grave  ! 
Yet  these  fell  chiefs,  the  tigers  of  mankind, 
To  pity  deaf,  to  sights  of  horror  blind, 
Within  whose  hearts,  a  sacred  place  of  rest, 
The  dove  of  mercy  built  no  hallowed  nest ; 
These  once,  in  infancy,  devoid  of  guile 
Slept  in  the  sunshine  of  affection's  smile, 
And  woke  from  balmy  slumber  but  to  share 
*  The  fond  endearments  of  parental  care  ; 
The  barbarous  Attila,  the  chief,  whom  God 
O'er  guilty  nations  made  his  chastening  rod  ; 
The  Tartar  lord,  whose  wild  and  countless  horde 
Swept  India's  fertile  realms  with  fire  and  sword, 
The  daring  soldier  cursed  with  wide  renown, 
Who  decked  his  brows  with  Gaul's  imperial  crown, 
Like  the  young  tiger,  to  whose  lips  the  taste 
Has  never  come  of  slaughter's  fell  repast, 
With  thoughts  unstained  by  crime,  in  sportive  play 
Passed  the  first  years  of  guilty  life  away. 
But  still,  as  time  on  stayless  pinions  flew, 
The  mind  corrupt  assumed  a  darker  hue, 
Still  stronger  grew  each  fiery  passion's  force. 
And  weaker  still  each  feeling  of  remorse  ; 
Till  manhood  found  them  fierce  and  uncontrolled, 
Insatiate  demons  in  a -human  mould, 
Scourges  of  man,  dark  wasters  of  the  earth, 
And  curses  of  the  realms  that  gave  them  birth- 


39 

Yet  these  were  thine,  0  War  !  thy  offspring  dear, 
Hailed  as  thy  sons  by  many  a  widow's  tear, 
By  many  a  father's  curse  and  orphan's  moan  ; 
From  thee  they  sprung,  to  thee  belong  alone. 
Their  youthful  hearts  were  taught  with  pride  to  swell, 
When  valour's  praise  was  breathed  from  Music's  shell ; 
Their  youthful  eyes  to  glisten,  when  was  told 
The  high  achievements  of  some  warrior  bold  ; 
These,  like  the  air  that  fans  the  chance-dropped  fire, 
And  wakes  its  weakness  to  destructive  ire, 
Roused  in  their  breasts  that  fierce  consuming  flame, 
The  fatal  ardour  for  a  conqueror's  fame. 
How  many  cities  for  their  glory  blazed  ! 
How  many  altars  at  thy  shrine  they  raised  ! 
The  fields  of  strife,  wrhere  human  victims  died 
In  countless  thousands,  to  augment  their  pride. 

The  soul  with  horror  sickens  at  the  view 
Of  scenes  so  dreadful,  but  alas  !  too  true  ; 
Fain  would  it  hope  them  but  the  frenzied  theme 
Of  morbid  fancy,  or  a  madman's  dream. 
But  no  !  let  ravaged  Asia's  woes  proclaim 
Fierce  Timur's  prowess  and  eternal  shame  ; 
Let  Rome's  dominions  tell  the  blasted  path, 
Where  rushed  the  Hun  in  his  infuriate  wrath, 
The  blighted  herbage,  and  the  withered  sod, 
All  black  and  bare  whete'er  his  footsteps  trod. 
Let  Europe  tell  of  later  deeds  the  tale, 
While  in  our  ears  yet  rings  the  sufferer's  wail. 
War  !  direful  curse  !  whose  pestilential  breath 
Fills  earth's  fair  scenes  with  ruin  and  with  death, 
Though  all  the  haunts  of  bliss  have  felt  thy  power 
To  crush  the  happiness  of  life's  short  hour, 


49 

Though  every  woe  the  human  heart  can  feel 

Has  lent  its  bitter  poison  to  thy  steel, 

Thy  deadliest  power  upon  the  mind  is  shed 

To  taint  the  streams  by  which  the  soul  is  fed, 

The  moral  fount,  whose  sparkling  waters  play 

Along  life's  narrow  path  and  cheering  way, 

That  leads  the  pilgrim  to  his  last  abode, 

The  seat  of  bliss,  the  footstool  of  his  God. 

What  are  the  woes  that  rack  this  earthly  formj 

Though  life's  brief  day  were  one  unbroken  storm, 

To  the  undying  worm,  the  unquenched  fire, 

The  offended  Deity's  consuming  ire, 

That  wait  on  guilt  with  retribution  just, 

When  to  the  earth  returns  its  kindred  dust; 

When,  deep  with  slaughter  stained,  the  soul  shall  wait3 

A  trembling  fugitive,  at  Heaven's  high  gate  ; 

When  from  the  crumbling  earth's  expanded  womb 

Shall  rise  the  tenants  of  the  crowded  tomb, 

And  those  who  fell  in  war's  unhallowed  strife, 

Demand  the  forfeit  of  their  wasted  life. 

Tremendous  thought !    who  then  would  bear  the  fame 

Of  Alexander's  noted  deathless  name, 

Who  then  would  wear  the  diadem  that  bound 

Napoleon's  temple  in  its  glittering  round, 

And  bear  alike  their  doom,  the  stern  decree 

Of  punishment  that  must  hereafter  be  ? 

Who  would  not  rather  then,  have  been  on  earth 

The  humblest  peasant  of  ignoble  birth 

And  life  unknown  to  fame,  whose  fleeting  span 

In  quiet  ended  as  it  first  bes;an, 

Than  he  who  wore  on  earth  a  conqueror's  crown 

And  bade  the  nations  tremble  at  his  frown  ? 


41 

Scotland,  thy  rugged  hills  have  often  seen 
The  stains  of  murder  en  their  dusky  green  ; 
There  oft,  amid  the  desert's  solitude, 
Rung  the  loud  cries  of  combat  wild  and  rude, 
When  the  fell  hunters  of  the  human  prey 
Tracked  through  the  pathless  wilds  their  victim's  way 
When  the  licentious  soldier,  trained  to  wield 
The  murderous  weapons  of  the  battle  field, 
His  kindred  race  commissioned  to  destroy, 
Rushed  on  the  zealot  few  with  frantic  joy  ; 
The  pealing  volley  told  the  captive's  doom, 
His  only  resting  place  was  in  the  tomb. 
Long  was  their  leader's  name  remembered  well 
Among  the  peasants  of  thy  rugged  dell, 
The  fiery  Grahame,  whose  fierce,  vindictive  hate 
Swept  their  recesses  like  the  blast  of  fate, 
Cruel  and  stern,  remorseless  as  the  sword 
That  at  his  bidding  cleft  life's  silver  cord. 
Though  the  fine  painter,  whose  enchanting  art 
Has  sketched  the  inmost  secrets  of  the  heart, 
In  the  rich  tale,  that  tells  of  Bothwell's  fight, 
Has  drawn  his  portrait  in  too  fair  a  light, 
Shed  o'er  his  features  chivalry's  bright  hue, 
That  screens  their  darkness  from  the  dazzled  view, 
Well  has  he  traced  from  innocence  to  guilt 
The  warrior  hardened  by  the  blood  he  spilt ; 
Who  fain  had  crushed  of  life  the  opening  flower, 
When  youthful  Morton  stood  within  his  power, 
In  morning  prime  the  springing  plant  laid  low, 
Ere  it  had  felt  the  noon  of  manhood's  glow ; 
Yet  his  own  lips  the  mournful  truth  confessed, 
That  once  far  gentler  feelings  ruled  his  breast, 
4* 


42 

That  once  his  heart  could  feel  for  those  that  bled, 

And  shrunk  from  scenes  of  death  with  native  dread, 

But,  callous  grown  amid  the  battle's  roar, 

At  Murder's  banquet  now  it  throbbed  no  more  ; 

Unmoved  he  saw  upon  the  cultured  soil 

The  limbs  that  fertilize  it  with  their  toil, 

Held  worthless,  as  the  earth  on  which  they  trod, 

The  peasant  race  that  tilled  the  stubborn  sod, 

And,  like  a  muddy  draught,  could  cast  away 

The  worthless  blood  that  warmed  their  sordid  clay. 

Deem  it  not  fiction  ;  though  the  writer's  skill 

Bestowed  the  thoughts  and  feelings  at  his  will, 

Truth  still  pervades  them  all,  her  beams  divine 

Through  all  the  artist's  varied  colours  shine. 

'Tis  thus  that  Nature  speaks  j  by  Genius  taught 

To  search  the  mazy  labyrinths  of  thought, 

To  mark  the  changes  rising  on  the  mind, 

And  trace  their  progress  as  they  onward  wind, 

The  writer's  powers  do  but  their  course  display, 

And  drag  their  darkness  to  the  light  of  day. 

Where  the  wild  Indian  prowled  on  Erie's  shore 
Or  heard  Niagara's  falling  waters  roar; 
Where  Mississippi  rolls  his  mighty  tide, 
Father  of  waters,  in  majestic  pride, 
How  often  have  the  forest  echoes  rung 
To  the  wild  warhoop  from  the  warrior's  tongue. 
In  night's  still,  lonely  hour,  when  sleep  had  spread 
Her  poppied  mantle  o'er  the  white  man's  head, 
Around  his  cabin  burst  their  horrid  cries, 
And  chased  the  slumbers  of  his  weary  eyes. 
Bright  o'er  his  little  home,  to  flames  consigned, 
Rolled  the  fierce  blaze  upon  the  midnight  wind : 


43 

His  infant  from  his  cradle  sleep  awoke 
To  feel  the  tomahawk's  descending  stroke  ; 
His  wife  sunk  bleeding  at  her  husband's  side; 
The  aged  grandsire  on  his  hearthstone  died  ; 
The  sad  survivor,  forced  awhile  to  bear 
The  load  of  life,  the  anguish  of  despair, 
The  utter  hopelessness,  whose  dreadful  gloom 
Disparted  only  at  the  burning  tomb, 
Was  led  away  to  prove  their  savage  skill 
With  writhing  nature's  utmost  pangs  to  kill, 
To  make  the  victim  feel  in  life's  last  hour 
O'er  the  frail  flesh  pain's  agonizing  power, 
Extremest  torture's  racking  force  to  try, 
And  feel  in  dying  what  it  is  to  die. 

Spirit  of  Mercy  !  whose  far  wandering  voice 
Has  bid  the  ocean's  farthest  isles  rejoice, 
And  sent  thy  heralds  o'er  the  rolling  waves, 
Amidst  Idolatry's  benighted  slaves 
To  preach  that  gospel,  in  whose  holy  strain 
Peace,  Love,  and  Charity  forever  reign  j 
Oh  !  can  it  be,  that  deeds  like  these  have  found 
A  voice  of  sanction  upon  Christian  ground  ! 
That  where  the  Sun  of  Mercy's  beams  have  glowed. 
And  limpid  streams  of  Christian  knowledge  flowed, 
War's  hateful  use  should  so  corrupt  the  heart. 
Destroy  the  feelings,  man's  more  noble  part, 
That  he  should  wish  against  his  fellow  men 
To  rouse  the  savage  from  his  gloomy  den  ! 
Oh  Britain  !  throned  amidst  the  rolling  sea, 
Whose  proudest  boast  is  that  thy  sons  are  free, 
That  on  thy  shore  each  wandering  wretch  may  find, 
Safe  from  the  tumults  that  convulse  mankind, 


44 

A  place  of  rest ;  that  Justice  rules  thy  land, 
And  Truth  and  Mercy  at  her  footstool  stand ; 
Oh  !  thou  hast  heard  within  thy  princely  halls, 
Within  thy  senate's  consecrated  walls, 
The  impious  voice,  that  on  the  western  world 
The  fiery  brands  of  Indian  vengeance  hurled. 
Then  thy  stern  statesmen  reared  oppression's  mace, 
To  crush  with  war's  strong  hand  their  kindred  race ; 
Roused  the  red  warriors  from  their  woodland  glades. 
From  the  dark  forest's  deep  and  tangled  shades, 
With  every  horror  savage  war  could  bring, 
Fell  as  the  crouching  cougar's  fatal  spring, 
To  rush  upon  the  homes  where  brethren  dwelt, 
Where  Christians  to  their  God  in  worship  knelt, 
To  kill  and  burn,  to  plunder  and  destroy, 
And  leave  in  ruins  what  they  found  in  joy ; 
Men  too  were  found  who  boldly  dared  to  plead 
In  day's  broad  light  in  sanction  of  the  deed, 
With  impious  breath  to  use  their  Maker's  name, 
And  call  on  God  to  justify  their  shame. 
Vainly  opposed  the  tongue  of  Chatham  spoke, 
And  from  his  lips  indignant  thunders  broke  ; 
'Twas  done.     0  Britain  !    on  thy  name  a  blot 
That  day  was  cast,  a  dark  and  dreadful  spot, 
And  rolling  ages  shall  essay  in  vain 
To  bleach  thy  glory  from  the  crimson  stain. 

Yet  not  with  anger  does  our  memory  dwell 
Upon  thy  fault,  nor  do  we  joy  to  tell ; 
We  too  have  sinned,  and  conscious  of  our  shame, 
Dare  not  the  guilt  as  thine  alone  to  blame  ; 
But  sorrowing  for  ourselves,  and  in  our  breast 
Bearing  thy  many  nobler  deeds  imprest, 


45 

Fain  would  we  treat  it  as  "  the  good  man's  sin, 
Weep  to  record  and  blush  to  give  it  in."* 

Where  darkly  swelling  on  the  deep  blue  seas 
The  billows  roll  beneath  the  favouring  breeze, 
Proudest  of  all  the  works  that  man  has  framed, 
Though  every  element  his  art  has  tamed, 
See  the  tall  ship,  with  wings  extended  wide, 
Cleave  her  swift  way  through  ocean's  pathless  tide, 
Slant  from  the  breeze  her  towering  masts,  that  brave 
The  sweep  of  winds,  the  tossings  of  the  wave  ; 
White  round  her  prow  the  meeting  waters  break, 
And  silver  foam  floats  eddying  in  her  wake. 
Oh  wondrous  power  of  man  !  that  thus  can  sway 
The  boisterous  winds,  and  make  the  seas  obey  ; 
Pass  the  dread  barrier  spread  by  Nature's  hand 
To  fix  the  wanderer  in  his  native  land, 
And  swift  as  winds  can  bear,  from  pole  to  pole 
A  passage  find,  where'er  the  billows  roll. 

Could  but  the  ocean's  viewless  caves  reveal 
The  secrets  their  unfathomed  depths  conceal, 
Could  but  to  earth  those  forms  return  again, 
Whose  bones  lie  heaped  beneath  the  darksome  maiu 
Recount  their  deeds,  their  sufferings  relate, 
How  on  each  bosom  fell  the  shaft  of  fate  ; 
Fierce  though  the  tempests  o'er  the  ocean  rave, 
And  plunge  the  seaman  in  a  watery  grave, 
Though  often  dashing  on  the  rugged  rock 
The  shattered  vessel  sinks  beneath  the  shock, 
Or  through  the  loosened  joinings  of  her  sides 
Silent  and  swiftly  flow  the  fatal  tides  ; 
Though  dark  Infection  o'er  the  waves  has  hung, 
*  Campbell. 


46 

And  deadly  poison  from  his  pinions^flung ; 

Yet  on  the  ocean,  as  on  land,  has  man 

Still  been  the  deadliest  enemy  of  man, 

Hurled  o'er  the  waves  the  thunders  of  the  fight, 

And  broke  with  battle's  flash  their  gloomy  night, 

In  one  short  hour  polluted  ocean  more 

With  mangled  dead,  than  these  for  years  before. 

The  winds  of  heaven  his  ministers  are  made, 

The  vtfngeful  fury  of  his  hate  to  aid  ; 

His  white-winged  vessels  o'er  the  deep  have  flown, 

From  the  parched  tropic  to  the  polar  zone, 

And  every  sea  has  trembled,  as  the  blast 

Wafting  the  voice  of  battle  o'er  it  past. 

Amid  the  isles  with  waving  verdure  drest, 
That  gem  the  azure  waters  of  the  west, 
The  Carib's  seats,  ere  wealth  allured  from  far 
The  sons  of  Rapine,  Avarice,  and  War, 
Like  meteor  portent  of  disastrous  hue 
The  pirates'  blood-red  flag  in  triumph  flew. 
For  years  their  barks,  the  lawless  strife  to  urge, 
Prowled  round  the  shores,  or  swept  the  heaving  surge  ', 
Their  desperate  crews,  of  many  a  distant  clime 
Abandoned  outcasts,  stained  with  every  crime, 
Rushed  on  the  mariner  then  taught  to  know, 
WThen  but  too  late,  the  danger  of  a  foe  ; 
Reft  the  rich  freight  his  peaceful  vessel  bore, 
And  slew  the  owner  for  his  golden  store ; 
Or  from  their  barks  descending,  when  the  shade 
Of  starless  midnight  lent  her  favouring  aid, 
On  some  fair  town  with  ravening  fury  fell, 
And  did  the  work  of  ruin  but  too  well ; 
Gave  its  fair  roofs  to  feed  the  wasting  fire, 
Its  sleeping  inmates  to  the  sabpe's  ire, 


47 

And,  tired  with  plunder,  sought  their  barks  again 
Ere  morning's  light  had  dawned  upon  the  main. 
Yet  Britain's  cross,  wide  floating  on  the  air, 
First  showed  the  path  to  wealth  and  rapine  there. 

Eternal  Justice,  found  with  God  alone 
Mid  the  dark  brightness  that  surrounds  his  throne, 
His  attribute  who  was  ere  time  began 
And  rolling  worlds  in  circling  orbits  ran, 
Who  shall  endure,  when  time  shall  be  no  more, 
And  worlds  in  chaos  lost  as  erst  before  j 
How  hastthou  seen  amid  the  daring  race, 
That  on  earth's  surface  dwell  an  instant's  space, 
Thy  laws  contemned  by  those,  whose  feeble  breath, 
A  moment  drawn,  expires  as  soon  in  death  ; 
Hast  seen  them  for  the  glories  earth  bestows, 
Too  dearly  purchased  by  another's  woes, 
Spurn  all  their  Maker's  laws,  his  power  defy. 
And  mar  his  fairest  works  beneath  the  sky. 
Thy  glittering  sword  its  terrors  rears  in  vain 
When  lawless  discord  wakes  the  embattled  plain  ; 
Its  edge  is  blunted,  and  thy  feeble  hand 
But  holds  with  powerless  grasp  an  useless  brand ; 
The  shield  of  war  protects  the  forfeit  head, 
And  sanctions  every  crime  and  outrage  dread. 
Yet  thou  shalt  triumph.     When  the  trump  shall  pour 
Its  awful  summons  shaking  every  shore, 
When  startled  elements  shall  shuddering  hear 
The  fearful  sound  of  dissolution  near, 
The  Archangelic  voice,  that  snaps  the  chain, 
Whose  viewless  links  the  rolling  earth  contain, 
Bids  the  deep  grave  to  render  up  its  trust, 
And  calls  the  sleepers  once  again  from  dust  ;* 
Then  shall  the  crimes,  o'er  which  Oblivion  long 


48 

Spread  her  dark  shades  that  veiled  the  unpunished 

wrong, 

Before  thee  rise,  and,  in  thy  balance  weighed, 
The  meed  that  vengeance  owes  to  guilt  be  paid. 
Then  shall  thy  sword  resume  its  awful  power, 
O  God  !  be  merciful  in  that  dread  hour  ! 
Though  they  deserve  not,  stay  thy  holy  wrath, 
INor  quite  consume  them  in  its  burning  path. 

O  dove-eyed  Peace  !    though  thankless  man  has  cast 
Thy  gentle  blessings  to  the  stormy  blast, 
Though,  ignorant  of  bliss,  has  rudely  torn 
The  olive  garland  on  thy  temples  worn, 
Though  transient  all  thy  visits  here  have  been, 
Far  sundered,  like  the  little  isles  of  green, 
That  mid  Zahara's  burning  deserts  placed 
Smile  bright  and  lovely  o'er  the  sandy  waste ;  * 
Fly  not  from  earth,  now  thy  reviving  smile 
Has  cheered  its  wasted  realms  a  little  while  ; 
Harmonious  send  through  distant  lands  thy  voice, 
And  bid  the  harassed  tribes  of  man  rejoice. 
Soon  may  the  time  arrive,  when  wars  shall  cease, 
And  human  rancour  rest  at  last  in  peace  ; 
When  the  mild  doctrines  taught  by  him  who  died 
An  unresisting  sacrifice  to  pride, 
When  darkened  Heaven  and  rocking  earth  confessed 
The  parting  agony  that  swelled  his  breast, 
Shall  rule  the  wayward  spirit,  and  control 
The  fiery  passions  of  the  human  soul ; 
When  Justice,  Love  and  Mercy  shall  illume 
Man's  passage  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb, 
And  death  shall  bid  the  guiltless  spirit  fly 
To  realms  of  endless  peace  and  love  on  high. 

FINIS. 


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